The Aftermath
by MyCrimsonDahlia
Summary: Just as the world has, their souls were born anew and now they must find each other again as an old evil threatens to tear the world apart once again. (Re-posted from my old channel, 1Hirotamoy1 has become MyCrimsonDahlia) Enjoy!


Hi everyone, this is MyCrimsonDahlia aka 1Hirotamoy1. Four years ago this movie became one of my favorites and three years ago I made my last update to this story. It's time for this story to become a phoenix and rise once again, just as I have. Thank you to all of my loyal followers and I hope you will like this new and improved version of The Aftermath. I won't say what's happened these past three years but I will continue to update the story on this profile and I hope you all will enjoy! 3

1= Sampson Aldridge 62

2=Joshua Burr 57

3= Christopher (Chris) Corwin 14 1/2

4=Chase Dillingham (He and Chris are still siblings, but have divorced parents.) 14 1/2

5= Michael Edwards 17

6= James Flint 16

7= Christina (Christi) Granger 17 1/2

8= Jonathan Hogan 23

9= Noah Islip 18

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Chapter 1 Insanity~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

6/ James POV

"I don't know what to do with the boy lately Charles, he become unbearable! I can't take it anymore!" The woman, also known as my mother, yelled into the phone. Her poorly manicured hands digging into the cold plastic as angry tears streamed down her cheeks flushed boney cheeks. I could hear the faint clicking of her heals as she walked throughout the apartment, a sound that wasn't uncommon when she was entering one of her tangents.

"He just sits in his room all day talking to himself as he creates those…those monstrosities!" Her shrill voice practically screams the last word and I can feel the floor shake as she knocks over another miscellaneous item, whether out of pure anger or on accident, I don't know. I begin to drown out the noise with the sound of paint on paper, immersing myself in my own world once again.

I wasn't unaccustomed to my mother's rants by this point; she had begun the practice of screaming to my father about my many 'issues' long ago. By this point though I was unaware, of my mother's words, her actions, I was so used to them by this point that what she said really didn't matter anyway. So now, I tune everything around me, the yelling, the sobs, the sound of shattered glass; even the incessant humming of the dim fluorescent light above me seemed to fade away, as my hands began to stroke feverishly at canvas in front of me.

I feel myself relax, my eyes focused, yet unfocused, as I see what is to come. Paint drips from my fingertips onto the worn cream carpet, staining the flooring as I create another one of my…pictures, my visions, whatever you might call them. It's a masterpiece in my eyes.

Curly black hair falls into my face as I frantically etch each detail of my vision onto the canvas. I can still see it clearly, the people, the city…and the monster. A shiver runs up my spine as I recall the glow from its optic and the green light that soon followed, ready to steal our souls away once again. I shake my head, reminding myself that I couldn't stop until it was done, no I wouldn't stop.

The light shone on my glasses as my pace began to grow more fevered, a cold sweat misting across my face; drops gliding slowly down my ghostly pale skin. I was freezing despite being covered in my thick pinstriped hoodie and long black pants. I wasn't surprised though, I wasn't cold because of the temperature; it was the constant rush of pure adrenaline that froze me to me core. I feel my eyes glass over once more, barely noting the mixture of ink and paint that stained my hands as came near the conclusion of my vision. The images of panic, screaming, and blood flashing wildly, as I try to copy down the images that were in what was left of my mind.

As I come down from my momentary high, I begin to hear my mother's wails once more, continuing to yell on the phone with my father, who was currently away on "business". I unconsciously let out an airy laugh, shaking my head.

My mother and I both knew that when my father was out "business" it just meant he was out with his blond tramp that he has for a secretary. I didn't mind though, aside from my mother's ranting, his absences were some of the most peaceful times in my home. Like my mother, my father thought I was nothing but a nuisance, and I knew that one of the reasons he was gone so often was to get away from me and my 'habits'.

There was a small break in the screaming and I sighed happily. I could practically hear him telling her to calm down, but like always she carried on about never wanting "This thing!" in the first place. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of her yelling, she finally got up grabbed her wallet, purse, and coat, and left. It was like her to do this every time I had a vision, she would see my drawings, yell at my father, grab her things, and leave to God knows where.

The moment I hear the door slam shut, I sigh contently, finally able to finish the final portion of the drawing in peace. I wiped some sweat off of my forehead, sweat mixed with ink and created a mess on my face, but it went unnoticed as I drew the final lines. I stopped momentarily and stared at the picture.

There were nine people in this one, just like the last few, eight males and one female, but the only one I recognized was myself. I was the sixth one to be drawn like always, each of us following the next in numerical order. "As it should be, 6 should be the sixth." I stated, smiling brightly at the large canvas on which I had drawn the vision, tracing a patterns that only I could see on it. I knew who the others were only by number; they had all been in my visions at one point or another. "1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, and last but not least 9, 9 is last, just as it should be." I said pointing to the last figure I had drawn, a small smile dancing on my lips.

The last figure seemed about my age, maybe a little older, but had short brown hair, silver grey eyes, with a stronger build, not that it was hard. I never really eat or go out, so I was really just skin and bones, and because I don't ever go outside I have extremely pale paper like skin, not that I mind. My look suited me, though I supposed all of ours did.

I stared at the picture a final minute before taking it into my hands and get up, my muscles groaning in protest as I had been sitting on them for over an hour. I ignore the feeling and walk across the stained floor to my wall, my eyes trailing along it while observing all of the many images that I had drawn over the years. Some were in pencil, some pen, some paint, and some were drawn in my own blood.

I didn't remember what happened when I drew with my own blood, those were few and far in between and though I tried to remember I couldn't . Though after waking up with blood running from my arms and tears rushing down my face, part of me didn't want to know.

I hit a nail into place and hung the newest addition to my collection up on my art covered wall. Once the piece was placed in a satisfactory position, I smiled and walked over to my old mattress and lay down, staring at the ceiling where more of my drawings had been pinned up throughout the years.

Most of my drawings were on loose sheets of paper as canvas was both expensive and something I didn't exactly prefer, and besides, paper was just easy to hang.

I sigh softly and turn to my side, mind wandering back to the figures in my drawings. No matter how many times I've drawn them, I've never met them and that fact something I just can't get out of my head. Every time I draw one of them I can't help but think about the others, about who they are, how old they must be, what they're like. I want to know so badly, but I knew the time would come soon enough, something deep within me told me that I just had to be patient.

I sighed, taking off my glasses and setting them on my small nightstand, next to my pills. They're the pills that the doctors make me take because they think I'm insane, I chuckle at the thought. I'm not insane, no, not at all, in fact, soon I might be one of the only truly sane people left.

I shifted to my side on my bed, and pulled my lone blanket over me, snuggling into it for all the warmth it had. I cringe slightly at the notion of having to sleep, but as much as I hated to admit it I need to. I shiver. But with sleep came my nightmares. I knew what was going to happen when I fell asleep, but I couldn't help it. I'd just have to endure them for them for tonight. After staying up for three days straight I was just so tired, and sleep just seemed so welcoming with my clouded mind. I shut my eyes and searched for something to think about, something happier, even if the thought would only stay for a while.

I began to think of tomorrow, the first day of school. I hoped that my first day of being a sophomore at this new school would be interesting, but I knew deep down it could just as easily turn out to be just my last school. My stomach clenches at the memory, but I shook it off, 'It won't happen this time, it won't.' I try to assure myself, failing miserably.

My freshman year of high school was probably the worst year of my life, and not to mention it was my first year at a public school since I was in kindergarten. My parents thought it would be best to keep their little accident from embarrassing them in front of the rest of the world. It had started out fine or as well as it could have, that is, until the rumors started. I wasn't liked from the start and people were constantly picking on me because of my dress and actions, a stuttering freak with a pinstriped hoodie wasn't exactly welcomed in the normal world. If it had just been the rumors I would have been ok. Later in the year though, it was worse than names. The changes were slow but as time went on, I got shoved into lockers, my stuff was stolen, and a few times I was beat up because I wasn't like them.

I was always drawing and writing by myself and every time they found me, they would take the drawings and tear up my work right in front of my face. Once I had made the mistake in trying to fight for my art, but I lost miserably and came home bloody and beaten that evening. My father didn't care enough to give me a passing glance while my mother said it was my own fault for drawing such "obscene images" in the first place.

I stutter and repeat things; I make sense to myself, but no one else gets me...I don't think anyone ever will. Back then I was so scared, so alone, and all of these horrible thoughts filled my mind when I tried to kill myself that same day. My father found me after I overdosed on my meds, and after the ambulance was called, and the whole school found out.

I couldn't be there after that so I stopped going to school and finished that year at home, nobody really cared anyway...just like how nobody would have even cared if I had died...maybe I should've have just died.

A soft sad sigh escaped my lips then I brought my hands to my hair and pulled hard shaking my head as I tried to push the thought away "No! I can't, I can't think like that s-something good has to happen, r-right?" I had to keep an open mind about it, I had to. "Maybe this will be the year." I thought hopefully, nodding to myself. I wrapped my arms around myself and curled up as I yawned, a deep sleep finally coming to me. I buried my head deep into my pillow and slowly fell asleep.

'Tomorrow…something, something important will happen, something good, I-it has to. I just know it.' The voice inside of me spoke. I smiled at it 'Yeah, something good.' And with that I fell asleep.


End file.
